Chapter 5 - Someone Wanted Him Hungry
Martin Vale arrived at 8:55 a.m.
He always arrived five minutes early.
Vincent had once considered punctuality a sign of respect.
That morning, it felt like evidence.
Martin was fifty-seven, silver-haired, controlled, and dressed like someone who had never spilled anything on himself in his life.
He carried the same brown leather briefcase he had carried for years.
“Vincent.”
“Martin.”
They shook hands.
Vincent studied his face.
Nothing.
No nervousness.
No hesitation.
If Martin had any idea Liam Bennett had been located, he did not show it.
“Good to see you downstairs again,” Martin said.
“I hear you’ve found an appetite.”
News traveled quickly.
Vincent smiled without warmth.
“Apparently.”
Martin glanced toward the kitchen.
Norah was inside preparing coffee.
Their eyes met for less than a second.
Martin looked away.
Vincent noticed.
“How are the port accounts?” Vincent asked.
“Strong.”
They entered the study.
For the next forty minutes, Martin reviewed financial statements.
Vincent heard almost none of it.
He watched.
Martin never touched his tie.
Never rubbed his hands.
Never shifted unnecessarily.
A disciplined man.
That did not make him guilty.
It made him difficult to read.
At 9:42, Norah entered carrying coffee.
Martin smiled politely.
“You must be the famous cook.”
“Temporary cook.”
“Apparently very effective.”
She placed Vincent’s coffee on the desk.
Martin looked at the cup.
Only for a moment.
But Norah saw it.
Vincent saw her see it.
“Thank you,” he said.
Norah nodded and left.
Martin continued talking.
Vincent did not touch the coffee.
At ten fifteen, the meeting ended.
Martin collected his papers.
“Same time Thursday?”
“I’ll call.”
Martin paused.
“That’s new.”
“So is breakfast.”
Martin smiled.
“Fair enough.”
After he left, Vincent remained behind his desk.
Enzo entered through the side door.
“Well?”
“Nothing.”
“You expected a confession?”
“I expected something.”
A knock sounded.
Norah entered.
She pointed toward the coffee.
“Don’t drink that.”
Both men looked at her.
Vincent’s face changed.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Norah.”
“I said I don’t know.”
She approached.
“I made it. I watched the machine. Nobody touched it while I was there.”
“Then?”
She picked up the cup and smelled it.
“Something’s different.”
Enzo stepped forward.
“Different how?”
“Bitter.”
“Coffee is bitter.”
“Not like this.”
Vincent looked toward the cup.
Six months earlier, his poisoning had started with espresso.
Every muscle in his body tightened.
Norah noticed.
She immediately put the cup down farther from him.
“Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were staring at it.”
“That is not drinking.”
Enzo took the cup.
“I’ll have it tested.”
Norah nodded.
Three hours later, results came back.
No poison.
No heavy metals.
No known toxin.
Vincent should have relaxed.
He did not.
“What was wrong with it?”
Enzo placed the lab sheet on the desk.
“Nothing dangerous.”
“Then?”
“Somebody added a strong bittering compound. Food-grade.”
Vincent looked up.
“Why?”
Enzo understood at the same moment.
Not to poison him.
To remind him.
Vincent’s body had spent six months associating bitterness with death.
Whoever had altered the coffee did not need to make him sick.
They only needed him to believe he might be.
Norah entered.
Enzo told her.
Her expression slowly changed.
“Someone wants him afraid of food again.”
Vincent said nothing.
Norah looked at him.
“That’s why they didn’t use poison.”
“Yes.”
“They know what happened to you.”
“Many people do.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“They know exactly what it feels like.”
The room became silent.
Vincent stared at the untouched coffee.
The old nausea had already started.
Not because of chemicals.
Memory.
His hand tightened.
Norah saw.
“Come to the kitchen.”
“No.”
“Vincent.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That’s the point.”
“I said no.”
Norah stood there.
Enzo wisely backed toward the door.
“I have some calls.”
Vincent glared.
Coward.
Enzo left.
Norah remained.
“You ate breakfast.”
“That was before somebody tampered with my coffee.”
“It wasn’t poisoned.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
Vincent looked toward her.
She lowered her voice.
“If you stop eating today, whoever did this wins.”
He knew that.
Knowing did not make his stomach release.
Norah approached.
“Come downstairs.”
“I can’t.”
The admission escaped before he could stop it.
Norah’s expression softened.
Not pity.
Thank God.
Just understanding.
“All right.”
She left.
Vincent expected relief.
Instead he felt disappointed.
Ten minutes later, she returned carrying two bowls.
His shoulders hardened.
“I said—”
“It’s mine.”
She sat across from him.
One bowl in front of herself.
One on the desk.
“What are you doing?”
“Lunch.”
Norah ate a spoonful.
Vincent stared.
Tomato soup.
Simple.
Familiar.
She ate again.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“Then leave.”
“No.”
Vincent looked toward the second bowl.
Norah continued eating without watching him.
Five minutes passed.
Then he picked up the spoon.
One bite.
His throat tightened.
He waited.
Norah talked about absolutely nothing.
A broken washing machine.
A woman on the bus arguing with a vending machine.
A neighbor who practiced trumpet at midnight.
Vincent took another bite.
Then another.
By the end, half the bowl was gone.
Norah collected both dishes.
Vincent stopped her.
“How did you know?”
“What?”
“That I needed you to eat first.”
Norah looked at him.
“Because being afraid makes people feel stupid.”
His expression became unreadable.
“You shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t what?”
“Understand me this well.”
Norah’s breathing changed.
For one second, something passed between them that had nothing to do with food.
Then Enzo burst into the room.
“We have Liam.”
Norah stood so fast her chair nearly fell.
“Where?”
“Safe house twenty minutes away.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s terrified.”
Vincent got up.
“We’re going.”
Enzo looked at Norah.
“She shouldn’t.”
Vincent answered for her.
“She’s coming.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Norah entered a small apartment guarded by four Rossy men.
Liam sat at the kitchen table.
He looked thinner.
Older.
His beard had grown unevenly.
When he saw Norah, his face broke.
She ran to him.
For almost a minute, neither said anything.
Then Norah slapped him.
Liam blinked.
She hugged him immediately afterward.
Vincent looked away.
“I deserved that,” Liam whispered.
“You deserve worse.”
“I know.”
Norah pulled back.
“Tell me what happened.”
Liam’s eyes moved toward Vincent.
Fear returned.
Vincent sat across from him.
“You know who I am.”
Liam nodded.
“Then you know lying is a poor choice.”
Norah gave Vincent a look.
He sighed.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
Liam almost laughed.
“That’s not what I’m afraid of.”
Vincent leaned forward.
“What are you afraid of?”
Liam swallowed.
“Martin Vale.”
Nobody moved.
Liam rubbed both hands over his face.
“I worked renovation jobs. Offices. Warehouses. Places nobody cared about.”
“What does that have to do with Martin?”
“One building belonged to a company I later learned was his.”
Vincent waited.
Liam looked sick.
“I found paperwork hidden inside a wall.”
“What paperwork?”
“Payments.”
“To whom?”
“Rafael Moretti.”
Vincent’s face went still.
“How much?”
“Millions.”
Norah stared.
Liam continued.
“There were dates. Transfers. And something else.”
“What?”
“A list.”
Vincent’s voice became very quiet.
“What kind of list?”
Liam looked directly at him.
“Your schedule.”
And at the bottom of that schedule, beside the date Vincent had been poisoned, was a handwritten note containing only two words.
May you like
FINAL BREAKFAST.
---
